


Glitch in the System: Start to Finish

by SystemGlitch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-28 00:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13259838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SystemGlitch/pseuds/SystemGlitch
Summary: By K.Recovery happens.





	Glitch in the System: Start to Finish

Recovery was something of an uphill battle for Widowmaker — a Sisyphean task at best, equally irritating, boring, and detrimental to years of diligently honed physical ability.

Though otherwise regarded as exemplary with regard to following orders, the assassin approached her recuperation with uncharacteristic impatience and quiet disregard of Moira’s stern but simple directives. The geneticist’s orders were by no means complex or burdensome; far from either, she simply instructed Widowmaker to allow herself ample downtime between their now-daily physical therapy sessions.

“A precaution, if you will,” Moira explained, draping her lab coat over one primly-crooked forearm. “The reduction of unnecessary stress will only expedite your convalescence. ”

Rationally, Widowmaker knew the doctor’s statement was true; still, their one- to two-hour sessions felt painfully insufficient of so much inactivity, no matter how challenging they proved.

At first, the sniper managed a handful of early morning runs, bookended by the brief, two- to three- hour interlude tucked surreptitiously into Moira’s otherwise sleepless schedule. Hidden among the smallest hours of the day, Widowmaker ran circuits around the garden perimeter, avoiding not only the doctor’s suspicion, but that of the rest of Talon’s elite. Though she reliably completed her first few laps with no issue, the assassin was often forced to cut those nigh-sacred excursions short, then end them entirely. Try as she might to secure it, her right arm - still confined to a sling - seemed incapable of tolerating the combination of areal cold and even the barest minimum of movement as she ran. Despite her best attempts at concealing the resulting discomfort, her inability to perform even basic therapeutic exercises the following day made Moira palpably suspicious.

“You’re sure you haven’t done anything to bother it?” she asked coolly as she completed the adjustments on her patient’s brace. “Anything?”

“Of course not,” Widowmaker lied, holding the doctor’s unwavering gaze.

Moira merely stared at her a long moment, offering Widowmaker a narrow-eyed glare that told the sniper with little ambiguity she knew she was lying.

“You will need to be more careful, then,” she replied, straightening. “Even small, simple movements can upset distressed ligaments. Do be gentle.”

As the geneticist waved her out of her office, Widowmaker felt less like she dodged a bullet and more like it had been intentionally, strangely misfired.

Foregoing the calisthenics, she attempted the familiar, practiced motions of barre within the safety of her bedroom. It was hardly a workout, but it was something. In that, too, she met resistance from her own body as broken ribs and the unyielding knot of damaged muscle along the line of her stomach refused more than a half-hour’s exertion. Even yoga - which she hated, regardless - proved untenable.

Every meter along her road to recovery felt like an endless trek across the landscape of her own personal hell. When part of her worked for more than an hour, she was lucky - and that was rarely the case. More often than not, what limited functionality Widowmaker could seize upon often left some other part of her screaming, a traitorous screech that prevented the establishment of any plan or regimen to which she could adhere. All there was were scattered insufficiencies, pain, and compounding agitation.

That, and her daily meetings with Moira, punctuated by her recurrent admonitions against anything strenuous.

“I don’t like her, either, but she knows what she’s doing,” Sombra murmured late one evening, face tucked against the sniper’s thigh as she curled, mink-like, about the other woman fuming at the edge of the bed.

“It is not enough,” Widowmaker said flatly, slipping long fingers through her hair to prod delicately at the tender trail of stitches along the right side of her skull.

“Spider,” the hacker chided, headbutting the other woman’s leg. “She could have you running marathons and it wouldn’t be enough for you.”

Widowmaker only huffed her resignation - a wordless acknowledgement of the truth.

“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you ask her to do more?” Sombra asked.

“No one asks Moira to do anything.”

With a heavy sigh, Widowmaker stood and moved across her room, pulling drawn curtains aside to reveal the dark of the winter’s night beyond, its otherwise impenetrable shadows illuminated by a mix of lamplight and its refraction off gentle, persistent snowfall. Somewhere between each individual flake, she saw that same restlessness staring back at her.

“Walk with me?” she asked, peering over her shoulder.

Sombra lifted her drowsy gaze to meet the sniper’s, blinking away the looming threat of sleep. “Right now? In the snow?”

“You can wear my coat.”

A slow smile crept across the hacker’s lips. “Such a lady.”

Once her starting volley of protestations against the cold subsided, Sombra allowed Widowmaker to guide her arm in arm through the garden, now a composite of snow-white geometry reaching toward the sky. Clearing its borders, they meandered aimlessly about the edge of the estate, then to its gates and beyond. There, a stretch of road yawned before the expansive Talon outpost, almost entirely devoid of signs of life save for the evenly-spaced streetlamps lighting the way toward Venice proper. As they followed that linear path, Sombra glanced up to her colleague, one eyebrow quirked in an expression of pointed curiosity.

“So.”

“So?” Widowmaker parroted, briefly meeting her eye.

“Moira.”

With a dismissive grunt, the sniper retrained her gaze - still somehow so bright even amid the darkness - on some nonexistent point ahead of them, buried amid the city lights. “What about her?”

“She’s something.”

“That is a word for her, yes,” Widowmaker replied. “I assume you have done your requisite digging.”

Sombra grinned. “You know me so well.”

Widowmaker did not return the gesture. “Then you understand why she is given so wide a berth.”

Shrugging her indifference, the hacker released her partner’s arm, shoving faintly shaking hands into the pockets of her borrowed coat. “I guess?”

“You  _guess_?” the sniper asked, suddenly sharp. Sombra was, if nothing else, remarkably perceptive; that she could regard Moira with such a staggering lack of concern - especially knowing as much as the other woman likely did - was startling.

Confused, Sombra stopped mid-step and turned to face the assassin. “She’s a genius, sure. But, come on,  _araña_  - any of you could take her. Hell, I could shut her down with a wave of my hand.”

Widowmaker stared at Sombra a long moment, expression unreadable but for the faint purse of her lips indicating she was at all engaged in their discussion, weighing her response. From an objective standpoint, she could almost see how one might consider Moira relatively innocuous: monumentally smart, yes; dangerously cunning, sure. Her dedication to progress at any expense was known the world over, equally revered and reviled. On paper, these traits could, she supposed, seem harmless on a broader scale.  But Moira - real, flesh and blood Moira - was more than just  _smart_ ; she was ruthlessly innovatory. Through that ingenuousness, she channeled that singular quality into a unique strength - one that anyone less privy to her experiments would, Widowmaker realized, likely fail to see.

With a leveling breath, she stepped closer to Sombra, lowering her voice instinctively despite their being otherwise alone.

“Moira does not need muscle or superior firepower to be a threat,” she explained. “She made Gabriel what he is, and played a significant role in my reprogramming. That is  _smart_. Now, extrapolate: she decides whether Gabriel remains as is, or whether his condition is amplified more cancerously than it already is. She is the arbiter of his health, just as much as she is the proprietor of my autonomy. She decides whether I retain any ounce of humanity, or whether I am just another machine in Talon’s employ. That is  _strength_.”

Sombra balked at the explanation given her, brows knit in accompaniment of the frown creasing her face. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“You would not have cause to do so,” Widowmaker replied. “You lack the lived experience beneath her thumb we possess. I suspect those whose lives  _you_  change might view  _you_  in quite the same way.”

“Hey, now,” Sombra interjected, pointing an accusatory finger even as her frown evanesced into a fey smile. “You comparing me to Doctor Human Rights Violation? That hurts,  _araña_.”

This time, Widowmaker did return the smile, albeit it much smaller as it replaced the concern from moments ago. Sombra’s deflection made it clear she understood her point - a disarming tactic the sniper appreciated for its efficacy in pulling her from the edge of detachment. “Yes. The two of you have so much in common. Very tall—,”

“— _spider_ —,”

“—and brilliant, and eminently capable.”

“Better.”

Offering the hacker her arm again, Widowmaker turned on her heel and started back toward the mansion, now a looming shadow. “Thank you,” she offered at last.”

“For?” Sombra asked, tilting her head.

“Walking with me. It is difficult, all this waiting.”

“Clearly.”

Widowmaker gave the other woman the slightest shove, tightening her grip so as to not throw the hacker off balance. “I am not good at being patient with myself. I never have been.”

Sombra walked silently beside her, the world around them peacefully quiet but for the crunch of snow beneath their shoes. “You gotta’ be careful about that,” she said at last.

“Oh?”

Pulling the sniper closer, Sombra curled her fingers into the sleeve of Widowmaker’s sweater. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to hurt yourself more. Then this whole thing starts all over again.”

Widowmaker chewed on her words, myriad replies tumbling through her mind. At the core of the matter, she knew Sombra was right. Injuries, improperly nursed, only begat more injuries as barely-healed ligaments and bone gave way under even regular duress. She’d seen it in ballet as much as she had in the field: dancers with broken ankles rising  _en pointe_  only to fall; soldiers, their wounds still fresh, charging headlong into a fight despite their inability to support basic combat armor or even their own weight. It never ended well, and she knew it.

Still, that intemperate loathing for too much relaxation and rest persisted; in that persistence, Widowmaker considered her having never expressed it to Sombra. “I am afraid I will complete my recovery only to find myself incapable of doing my job,” she admitted.

“Makes sense,” Sombra nodded. “And you’re gonna’ need some work to get back on track. But you’ve got two pretty big advantages on your side from what I can see.”

“Go on.”

“One: you were literally reprogrammed to be good at the things you’re good at. Sure, you need to keep up with it, but they basically made you an expert.”

Widowmaker blanched.

“Two - and this one’s more important, so stop making that face: you’re you. You care about being the best, so I don’t think anyone doubts you’ll make sure you end up back on top.”

With the most imperceptible of smiles, the sniper released Sombra’s arm to take her hand instead, shoving both back inside her coat pocket. “You are very kind,  _cherie_.”

“Just stating the truth. Now, do me a favor.”

“Hm?”

“Please take it easy so we can get that woman out of here.”


End file.
